by Pirateaba
“Gerald, Cervial! Answer me! What’s going on? Are you alright?”
Neither face moved. Neither head twitched. The adventurers watched Gerald stare ahead, eyes unseeing.
They knew. They knew what had happened. And as Lir’s head emerged from the folds of the creature in front of them and it pulled itself into the light, they understood what they were seeing.
Flesh. Dead flesh. It rippled, shook, twisted, shining in the light. It was yellowed in places, fleshy pink in others, bloody in spots. But mainly white. White with age and bloodless death. It was dead skin, layered and congealed.
It was a body. And the faces of their friends, the Captains—
They were part of it.
Not just their faces. Their skin. As the creature drew closer, several men and women gagged or vomited in place. This—thing was made up of bodies. Entire bodies, skinned. Torn from their owners and pasted together.
And what it made was a long, bloated slug-like body that reared upright. Two massive arms reached out and seized at the ground, dragging the rest of the body behind it. There was no head. Rather, a sunken face, a mockery of the human face. No nose. No ears or hair. Just two sunken sockets filled with a crimson glow and a gaping, empty mouth.
Pieces of white flesh trailed behind the creature as it pulled itself forwards another ten meters with its hands. It was falling apart, leaving bits of itself where it went. But it was massive, hands wide enough to curl around any human, long, almost delicate fingers of slick white flesh, exposed along the palms where red flesh could be seen underneath.
Something. Something was living in the body of dead skin. And it was coming. The creature slowly moved towards the adventurers, pulling itself along the ground as the faces of their comrades—all of them—stared blankly ahead, the latest addition to its skin.
Because that was what it was. And Ceria knew. She knew as it stared down at her and she felt death in her bones.
She knew its name.
Skinner.
—-
He came towards them, slow, dragging himself along with one arm as he travelled down the corridor. He had no legs. He was just a torso, a disfigured mockery of something human. Not even that.
He wasn’t even remotely humanoid. Unlike the Crypt Lords who looked like bloated, twisted mockeries of something once living, Skinner just looked dead.
Ceria knew she should move. She knew she should raise her wand and start blasting at the creature now it had appeared. She should rain fire upon it with the others, eradicate it from the face of the earth. It was in front of her.
But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t raise her wand. She was petrified.
Two ruby eyes flashed deep within the folds of dried, caked skin. They didn’t move, not like normal eyes. Skinner had to twist and turn his head to see with them, but the light they cast created a cone of—of—
Terror.
It had struck her the instant he had appeared down the corridor. Something had reached inside her, taken hold of her heart. She shook as he approached, and she was unable to move.
“It’s just…dead skin.”
Yvlon muttered it. Ceria had to turn her head to see. The woman was trembling, hand gripped on her sword. She was trying to raise it, but she couldn’t.
Fear.
“We’re under a spell.”
Ceria said it through numb lips. She tried to gather mana inside of her, fight off the magic. But it was too strong. And terror was consuming all of her. She couldn’t even think of resisting. All she wanted to do was run.
But she was too afraid to do even that.
It was like the nightmares Ceria had had as a child, in between waking and sleep, at midnight. She would be in her bed, staring at a door, a window. She knew something was behind it, that something was watching her. She knew, but she was too afraid to get up and see. If she moved—if she made any motion—it would get her.
So she would lie still, and eventually she would fall asleep or morning would come. Her night terrors would disappear in the light of day.
But this was different. This was horror made flesh, and it wouldn’t disappear. But like her childhood fears, Ceria was trapped. She couldn’t move.
“Horns of Hammerad—”
Calruz’s voice choked in their silence. She saw him raise a foot and struggle to step forwards. Even the Minotaur, even her fearless leader was paralyzed.
“We must—retreat.”
Olesm said that. He was trying to shift backwards, but even escape was difficult. They were paralyzed.
Skinner pulled himself closer. Too close. He was in front of them now, and they smelled him. Dead flesh. Blood, too. Blood and death and rot. It was horrific.
His eyes gaze down on them, bringing fear. Calruz tried to raise his axe, but his arms shook. Skinner’s mouth opened.
He smiled.
A hand shot out. A woman in the front—a warrior with an axe and shield—screamed in sudden terror. It brought the other adventurers out of their paralysis. They scattered as Skinner encircled her with one hand and then pulled.
Her skin came off. All at once. It left—it left a bloody body that felt to the ground. Possibly dead. Or worse—alive.
The woman’s skin flapped and trembled in Skinner’s hand. He reached up and laid it delicately across one arm. Her skin…melted into his flesh and suddenly there she was. Her empty face stared down at the others.
They fled. Their terror hadn’t ended, just shifted. Instead, the seasoned Silver-rank adventurers dropped their weapons and ran, pushing, shoving, trying to get away.
But as they turned to flee, they found they were not alone. Bodies stood in the way, blocking the corridor. Dead bodies.
Zombies. Skeletons. Ghouls. Even more Crypt Lords and Wights. The undead had reappeared, and they had cut the adventurers off from escape. They fell upon the adventurers silently, grabbing them, biting them, pushing them back towards Skinner.
“Retreat!”
It was Calruz who bellowed it. He gripped his battleaxe in shaking hands and decapitated a zombie. Ceria also moved. She raised her wand slowly and fired a spike of ice at one of the dead as her feet took her backwards.
She could move. She and Gerial ran back down the corridor with the other adventurers, knocking away the undead. She could fight. But the instant she turned towards Skinner or even thought of raising her wand to fight him—
Paralysis. Fear. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. All she could do was run. She had to get away. She had to get away.
The adventurers screamed and ran down the corridor, some tripping, some fighting with the undead or dragged backwards. Skinner seized a mage who screamed for help but no one turned for him.
They ran. But they stopped when they saw the wall of undead warriors. They were blocking the way back up to the surface. They waited, the dead body of the warrior who had fled earlier crushed against one wall, his brains pasted against the stone.
“We must run.”
“We must fight.”
Yvlon and Calruz spoke at the same time. She was trembling, but he had stopped. His head was turned. He was looking back towards Skinner.
Ceria didn’t want to look. She wanted to run, but Calruz had stopped. He raised his voice, not shouting, but speaking loudly, his voice echoing in the silence.
“Horns of Hammerad. If you have any pride, turn and face your enemy.”
She didn’t want to. But she had to. Just to know how close it was. Ceria turned—
And saw Sostrom.
He dangled from Skinner’s hands. Or part of him did. His skin had been taken and had become part of Skinner’s body. The monster cast aside what remained.
He had screamed for help. But Ceria had ignored him. He had screamed. And now he was dead.
Ceria saw it. She saw it, but her eyes fled from Skinner. She shook, unable to look at him. He was advancing slowly, taking his time as the undead boxed the other adventurers in. She—Sostrom was dead. But she had to run.
&n
bsp; Her feet moved back. But a pair of hooves stepped forwards.
Calruz took one step, and then two. He moved haltingly—his body leaning forwards as if he were struggling against something. But he moved towards Skinner, and he spoke.
“Do not run. You are the Horns of Hammerad. This thing had slain our own. We must avenge—”
“Calruz. We have to go. Help us.”
Ceria breathed the words. The Minotaur shook his head.
“Honor. We must not run. Face your death with pride.”
He hefted his battleaxe. Skinner paused, staring down the corridor at the only adventurer not running from him. He seemed…intrigued, as far as his expressionless face could be. He raised a hand.
“I am Calruz. I challenge you.”
The Minotaur raised his axe. He dodged under one of Skinner’s hands as it shot towards him and raced towards the body. He brought his axe up and sliced at Skinner’s chest.
The weapon bit deep into flesh. Calruz roared as he tore it through the dead skin, and for a moment Ceria dared hope. The adventurers paused in their fighting, and so did the dead, staring at Skinner.
Calruz’s axe severed the chunk of Skinner he’d carved away and it fell to the ground. Skinner blinked down at it. It was—
It was dead skin. Calruz stared into the gaping wound he’d left. Dead skin was all he saw. Just dead skin. No blood. Not even any organs or bones. Just dead skin, layered to create armor.
He raised his axe again and it bit deep. But he struck nothing but skin. And above him, the monster moved.
A massive hand swung towards Calruz. The Minotaur had lodged his axe in the skin and he had to roll and abandon it. He dodged sideways, but too slowly. Too late.
Skinner turned and seized Calruz’s arm with one of its hands. It twisted, and the Minotaur screamed and fell back. The monster tossed his arm to the ground dismissively and his mouth moved.
He grinned.
Ceria screamed as Calruz stumbled away, one of his shoulders suddenly a bleeding stump. He roared in pain, fury, and fear. He raised his hand to strike at Skinner, but something caught him from behind.
A zombie. The dead Drake grabbed Calruz by the legs. He turned and kicked, and it fell to the ground, skull fractured. But a skeleton tackled him, grabbing onto his arm, and then more zombies seized him. Calruz threw them aside, pounding, fighting, but they engulfed him.
He disappeared under a swarm of bodies, roaring in agony as their claws and blades tore at his flesh. The darkness swallowed the Minotaur as Skinner turned towards Ceria.
She trembled. She was fixed in place as the crimson eyes fixed on her. She wanted to run. She needed to run. But fear kept her in place.
A skeleton drew near, grinning, a sword in its hands. It raised the blade and Gerial slammed into the skeleton, knocking it to the floor.
“Ceria!”
He shouted at her, shielding her with his back from Skinner’s gaze. She could suddenly move again, and she gasped and shuddered as he pushed her back.
Gerial held Ceria as she clutched at him, his head swiveled around at the dead fighting the living, the adventurer still screaming and trying to escape. His arms tightened and he held her close. He spoke to her, his voice the only thing she could hear above the roaring in her ears.
“Go. Run.”
“What?”
Ceria stared at him. Geria’s face was white, and he looked almost as bloodless as Skinner’s body. He shuddered and she felt it.
“Run. I’ll—I’ll buy you some time.”
He pointed down the corridor. Ceria’s feet began to move, but she halted them.
“Gerial—”
He shoved her away.
“Run, damn you!”
He turned and walked down the corridor towards Skinner. He couldn’t look at it, and his legs shook. They stopped fifteen feet from Skinner. Gerial couldn’t move any closer.
Again, Skinner halted and stared at him with interest. Gerial tried to raise his sword, but he couldn’t. Terror gripped him, and he couldn’t even lift his weapon.
It wasn’t fair. But he heard and felt Ceria turn and flee behind him. That was enough. That was—
He raised the other object in his right hand. A jar of acid sloshed around in his gauntleted hand. Maybe. If he could get Skinner to turn back, maybe—
He was going to die. Gerial knew it. The undead surrounded him, not attacking. The adventurers were running or dead, but the dead waited for Skinner to take him. He had to buy time. To let her live. To let one of them survive.
“Death before dishonor.”
The words were enough to make him look up, to meet that terrifying gaze. Skinner smiled at him, and Gerial’s heart stopped. The hand came down, and he raised his arm, drew back his arm to throw the jar.
But he hesitated. The fear made his arm spasm and the jar of acid broke on the ground in front of Skinner, showering only the monster’s lower half with acid.
Skinner lurched back. The skin began to smoke and peel away, but the creature didn’t let the acid consume any more. He reached down and peeled off several layers of his own body, digging his hand into the white skin and hurling the smoking bits to the ground where they were consumed.
Gerial stared numbly at the dead flesh. He raised his sword, but Skinner lashed out with one finger and the weapon went flying. Gerial’s hand broke with the impact.
He looked up bitterly. Skinner loomed over him. It was no longer smiling, at least.
“If—”
A hand seized him, and Gerial felt tearing—and then coldness. He was gone before he hit the floor.
—-
Ceria saw Gerial die. She stopped in the corridor and screamed. He fell to the ground as Skinner carefully took his skin. The creature placed it where acid had struck him and then continued on as if nothing had happened.
She had to run. But something in Ceria was screaming louder than the fear. Sostrom. Calruz. Gerial. Her friends were dead. Her family was dying.
She faced Skinner, her body shaking. Ceria couldn’t even stare into his face. He laughed at her, soundlessly, crumbling lips revealing a body that was hollow. He was just skin. Skin and something red that twisted through the dead body, giving it life.
She couldn’t raise her wand. Fear consumed every part of her. Ceria howled in despair and fled. It was the only thing she could do. She left her friend behind and ran.
Live. She would die if she faced Skinner. She had to live.
A hand shot out and seized her by the leg. Ceria screamed as the skin along the back of her leg tore.
Her skin curled as Skinner regarded it in one hand. He brought it up to his ‘mouth’ as if tasting it, and then tossed the bit of flesh away. And he took no notice of Ceria either. Skinner turned and began to drag himself along the ground, after the humans.
For a moment Ceria lay on the ground, disbelieving. But then she saw the dead moving towards her, and reality came back with the pain.
She got up. Her leg—she could move. But only just. Ceria limped and pulled herself along the corridor. The undead were around her, striking at adventurers as they cowered or chasing those that fled.
It was chaos. Ceria raised her wand and blasted a skeleton out of her path. She was close to the room with the injured but—
Yvlon was ahead of her, part of the scrum of adventurers screaming and fighting to get past two Crypt Lords. The massive abominations blocked the passage, smashing adventurers against the walls and crushing them with contemptuous ease.
There was no attempt to fight as a group. Men and women shoved each other, striking even their friends as they sought to escape. Skinner slowly dragged himself down the corridor, ripping the humans apart as they screamed in terror.
The captain of the Silver Spears was shouting, trying to be heard above the din. She was gripped by terror like the others, but she was at least coherent enough to try and fight the Crypt Lords. But no one was listening to her.
The undead were everywhere. They floo
ded out of the tunnels, biting, clawing, tearing. Ceria screamed as a skeleton stabbed her in the back with a dagger. Again, her robes saved her but she felt the skin break even as the blade slashed at her.
He stabbed her in the leg. Ceria screamed as she felt her exposed sinews tear and her bones crack.
She raised her wand and this time burned him. The skeleton staggered away as his bones cracked from the heat. Ceria pulled herself upright. The pain was overwhelming, but if she stopped to consider it she would die.
The Crypt Lords barred the way, but there were gaps between their bloated bodies. Enough for her to get through. She could run. She could use the other adventurers as a shield so long as Skinner ignored her. If Ceria sacrificed them she could—
Yvlon was fighting. Her blonde hair was dirty with blood, but she whirled, cutting down ghouls and zombies as she struggled to protect her friends. She was trying to carve a path open before Skinner reached them. But the Crypt Lords were too strong, the adventurers too disorganized.
They would all die. Ceira looked at Skinner, and her mouth opened. She couldn’t raise her wand despite it all. The magic was too strong. She was too afraid. She cursed herself for that.
But the others—Gerial’s face swam in front of Ceria. She closed her eyes.
“Death before dishonor.”
Ceria snapped her wand. She had to break it over her good knee, but when she did, the magic burst out. Cold, endless cold instantly covered the walls and floor around her with frost, and the undead trying to attack her froze. But Ceria took the magic and used it.
A spell.
Yvlon turned, her sword raised just in time to see Ceria point. The half-Elf was standing down the corridor, behind Skinner, but she aimed at the Crypt Lord closest to Yvlon. Her finger glowed with white-blue light and a blizzard had appeared around her.
The female adventurer dove to the floor as a spike of ice twice as long and wide as a human fired down the passage. It struck the Crypt Lord in the chest and continued down the passage, shattering into shards against a wall. The undead, and even adventurers unlucky enough to be caught in the way fell to the ground, frozen. Or dead.
The lower half of the Crypt Lord fell down, and adventurers scrambled through the opening. The other Crypt Lord seized two men, but other men and women darted past, pursued by the faster undead.